Page 71 of Scarlet Thorns
“The Scarlet Fox was supposed to be temporary. Just until I found something better.” Her fingers trace the rim of her mug.
“But then you found Tibor.”
“Then I found Tibor.” She grimaces then takes a sip of her tea. The more she talks, the stronger the familiarity becomes. Something about her gestures, the way she pauses between thoughts. Like déjà vu that won’t resolve into actual memory.
“What about your family?” I ask, though some instinct warns me the answer might be dangerous. “Can’t they help?”
“My mother…” She pauses and I see a gleam of hesitation in her eyes. Pain flickers across her features so quickly I almost miss it. But then she looks up to meet my gaze, and something in my expression convinces her it’s safe to share. “She’s in Boston. She’s not… well, and I don’t want to burden her. My father…” She stops, swallowing hard. “He died last year.”
Boston?
“I’m sorry.” The condolence feels inadequate, but it’s all I manage. Something at the back of my mind begins to take shape. Something dark, something more than just mere familiarity. “Your father… He was also in Boston?”
“Yes. He was a gynecologist. Very respected, very…” Her voice breaks slightly. “Very loved.”
Bozhe moy.
The tea mug slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, ceramic shattering against marble with a sound like breakingbones. Hot liquid spreads across expensive stone, but I barely notice because the pieces are suddenly falling into place.
The strange feeling of familiarity.
The gynecologist who died.
Igor Shiradze.
The woman standing in front of me is fucking Igor Shiradze’s daughter. Sitting in my fucking kitchen. Drinking my fucking tea.
The woman from Room Five.
The masked angel who trusted me with her pain while I carried the knowledge of causing it. The daughter of the man I murdered in a parking lot because he threatened everything I cared about.
Impossible.
The odds are astronomical, the coincidence too cruel to be real. But the universe has always had a twisted sense of humor when it comes to my life.
“Are you okay?” Ilona’s voice comes from very far away, muffled by the roaring in my ears.
I force myself to focus on her face— concerned, beautiful, alive. The woman who haunts my dreams sitting three feet away, worried about me instead of recognizing the monster who destroyed her world.
“Fine.” My voice sounds foreign, mechanical. “Just clumsy.”
But I’m not fucking fine. I’m drowning in the weight of recognition, in the cosmic joke that brought Igor Shiradze’s daughter to my restaurant, my house, my protection. The same pull I felt in Room Five burns between us now— magnetic, undeniable, wrong in every possible way.
She doesn’t know. Can’t know. The mask protected both our identities for several nights, kept us safely anonymous. To her, I’m just the Russian businessman who saved her from acreep’s assault. Not the masked stranger who made her feel alive. Not the killer who stole her father.
“I should clean this up,” I mutter, dropping to gather ceramic shards with hands that I have to force to keep steady.
“Let me help—”
“Net.” The word comes out too sharply. “Just… sit. Please.”
She settles back onto her stool, but I feel her eyes on me as I clean. Studying. Probably wondering why her simple mention of her father’s name made me react this way.
When I straighten, she’s watching me with the same intensity I remember from that burgundy room. The air between us crackles with something I can’t acknowledge, a pull I can’t act on. I know she feels it too.
“Ilona.” For some reason, I find it hard to say her name. “I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
